


On the Rocks (And I Mean Ice!)

by Xparrot



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humor, Season/Series 04, Sharing Body Heat, Snow and Ice, Snuggling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-31
Updated: 2008-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:31:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xparrot/pseuds/Xparrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys, stuck overnight on Random Ice World # 69-But-Who's-Counting (Except McKay), just trying to stay warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Rocks (And I Mean Ice!)

**Author's Note:**

> For [sga_flashfic](http://community.livejournal.com/sga_flashfic/)'s "F**king Freezing" challenge. Originally a drabble idea Gnine and I shared, that expanded rather a lot. Title from _Who Framed Roger Rabbit?_ ; blame Naye who told me it was funny to someone not-me.

_This_ , John thought, was why Teyla was so integral to the team. Apart from the way his stomach knotted at the thought of losing their perfectly established balance, the utter symmetry of four; to say nothing of the skill with which Teyla wielded her sticks or a P-90, or her vast knowledge of Pegasus and vital familiarity with its peoples. Here was the most straightforward proof: if Teyla had been here with them, then they wouldn't _be_ here now.

Mainly because Teyla would have thought to ask one of the nice Eskimo impersonators _why_ walking to the Ancestor's temple after dark was a bad idea.

To be fair, McKay had asked; but the villagers had already stopped listening or speaking to him after the third thing out of his mouth. On the scale from Earth-abnormal to Pegasus-whacko, the silent treatment was relievingly low-key, but trouble was trouble, in the end. Though in Rodney's defense, that sacred mask _did_ bear an uncanny resemblance to Mario, especially with the mustache; and without Teyla how were they to know that 'Nintendo' sounded unfortunately like 'Nintindote,' apparently the local colloquialism for sled-dog shit.

" _So you're all uninjured?_ " Colonel Carter verified. Atlantis had dialed in when they were a half-hour late returning.

"McKay twisted his ankle, otherwise we're fine," John said into the radio. "We got lucky—"

"Obviously this is some strange, new definition of 'lucky'," Rodney muttered from his corner of the crevasse, huddled against the sheer ice wall.

"—the snow broke our fall," John finished. "But the crevasse is a good twelve feet deep, no way to climb out without equipment." Not like that was stopping Ronon from trying, but by John's count it was Glacier 4, Satedan 0. At least he'd persuaded the big guy to lay off the gun before he'd buried them in their own private avalanche. "And the flurries have picked up, visibility's low. Any team would probably end up falling in themselves before they reached us."

" _We could send a jumper,_ " Carter suggested.

"No safe place to land it," John said, idly playing his flashlight over the blue ice towering up on either side of them, crystal flakes twinkling like stars. "Obviously the snowfield's more unstable than it looks." He'd been lectured about crevasses in the mandatory safety presentation when he had first been assigned to Antarctica. Don't use the endangered penguins for target practice, watch out for hypothermia, and be careful about seemingly solid snow bridges that could give way underfoot and drop you to your death in an icy chasm. He should have remembered. The problem with Pegasus was that between the space vampires and the renegade microbots, it could slip your mind that Mother Nature was also always out to get you.

"Look, McKay says the nights here are pretty short," John said. "The sun'll be up in five hours or so—"

"—five hours and eighteen minutes," Rodney specified.

"—and from what the villagers said, the snowfall usually stops after sunrise, too. It'll be safer for a team to come get us out then, and the villagers might be willing to send a guide along. It didn't sound like they minded making the trek to their temple, just not at twilight. If Rodney hadn't been dying to check out the Ancient tech—"

"—Possible tech, and oh, yes, which one of us kept going on about getting back for cocoa on Atlantis? With marshmallows? And Ronon was the one with the hot date tonight—"

"Anyway," John said loudly over Rodney, "it's not that cold, we'll be okay waiting it out."

" _If you're sure,_ " Carter said, unhesitating despite Rodney's protests. " _We'll dial back in a couple hours to check up on you. For now, hang in there._ "

"Roger that," John said. "Sheppard out."

He switched off the radio and aimed his flashlight at his teammates. Ronon was still feeling the ice walls for cracks to climb. Rodney had laid one of his foil space blankets on the ground and wall to sit against, his hurt leg stretched out and raised on his pack. He blinked as the flashlight's beam caught his pale face, unable to raise his hands to block the shine, as he'd pulled his arms from his sleeves to tuck them against his chest, inside his zipped parka.

"Lucky?" he repeated, squinting a glare at John against the light. "What insanely arbitrary measure tallies up this situation as 'lucky' in the Colonel Sheppard book of successful mission protocol?"

"Hey, if we hadn't been, we'd have fallen a hundred feet, and instead of just twisting your ankle you would've broken your neck."

"And that would have been unlucky how?" Ronon inquired.

Rodney stuck up his red nose and sniffed coldly. "See if I share my body heat with you, when your organs are shutting down from severe hypothermia."

"No one's getting hypothermia," John said. "It's barely below freezing, we're dressed for the cold, and dry and out of the wind down here. We've only got a few hours to kill and then we'll be sipping cocoa in the mess hall. Like I said—lucky."

"Now you have totally jinxed us, you know," Rodney said. "And again with the cocoa. Thinking warm thoughts just reminds me of how cold it actually is."

John rolled his eyes. "Are you sure you're really Canadian?"

"Absolutely. We Canadians are smart enough to know when to get in out of the cold."

"Satedans do, too," Ronon just had to put in, with a reckless grin that John could tell meant the gun would be coming back out of its holster any minute now. Neither Ronon nor Rodney did well waiting in enclosed spaces with no way out.

"Okay, kids," John said, "let's build a fire."

Rodney stared at him. "With what?"

"We've got lighters and flares."

"In case you missed second grade chemistry, Sheppard, H2O, even in its solid state, doesn't typically burn. Unless you've got some raw potassium on you."

"I'm hoping we might find something down here. Maybe a tree fell into the crevasse."

"Or something we're carrying," Ronon said.

"Oh, no no no!" Rodney scrambled to thrust his arms back in his parka sleeves and grab his laptop, clutching it protectively to his chest like a mother with a sick baby. "This is government-issued and the data on it—"

"Rodney, we're not planning on setting fire to your laptop!"

Rodney eyed him and then Ronon narrowly. "Also you should know, the carcinogenic fumes from the burning plastics and soldering would probably kill us."

Ronon shrugged. "Gotta keep warm somehow, though."

"Which is why we should look for firewood."

"Those of us who can walk," Rodney said sulkily, scowling like his wrapped and elevated ankle was John's fault. "What happens when the wolves come for me?"

"There aren't any wolves on this planet, McKay."

"The villagers told you that, did they? Right after they told you not to go traipsing across the western glacier because of the giant yawning gorges that will open under your boots and swallow you whole?"

"And if there are wolves, you do have a lethal weapon."

"Oh, and how long do you think two P-90 clips will last against a pack of fifty starving dire wolves, hmm?"

"I was talking about your mouth," John said, "though I'd keep it down if you don't want to start an avalanche," and he stomped off to look for wood. Though if that failed, going Guy Fawkes on the laptop was sounding like a better idea all the time.

The crevasse was shallow, but long, extending in a jagged tunnel in both directions, and wide enough that John couldn't bridge it with his arms fully outstretched. His flashlight's beam bounced off the glittering blue-white walls, shimmering and ghostly. Overhead a brittle crust of snow divided him from the cloudy night sky, the same treacherous bridge that had given way and dropped them down here. The crevasse's bottom was filled with hard packed snow, but he tread carefully, testing every step. Once bitten, twice shy.

He found nothing, though, no fallen trees and no lupine footprints, either, and finally the crevasse narrowed to the point he couldn't go any further. Shining his flashlight through the gap, he couldn't make out anything but more crystal white ice, so he sighed a puff of mist into the cold air and turned back.

John heard his teammates' voices before he saw them, mumbled and muffled by the snow. Maybe McKay was taking the avalanche warning seriously. Though since he couldn't get up to move around, his mouth motoring was probably the best way he had to keep warm. Unless Ronon had found kindling. John picked up the pace, daring to hope for a glimpse of flickering gold—settling down by a crackling campfire was just what he needed. Antarctica had been far colder, but he'd been smart enough to stay out of it, mostly, like Rodney had said. Now his fingers and toes were prickling with chill, his cheeks were chapped, his nose hurt, and he'd give up flying for a month for a mug of hot cocoa with a splash of brandy. Well, two weeks, at least.

Plus he couldn't help but worry that Rodney might come down with frostbite and lose his foot or something. John would never hear the end of it then. Not to mention he was kind of partial to all his teammates staying intact.

But there was no fire waiting for him, only the cold glare of Rodney's Maglite, planted upright in a snowdrift and washing its white glow over the snow ceiling like a fountain. Behind it, Rodney was still huddled against the wall, next to Ronon.

Or rather, huddled against Ronon, who was huddling back aggressively, trying to worm his arms under Rodney's parka while Rodney flailed at him, arguing, "Yes, I know, I'm sorry you're missing your date, but do I look _anything_ like Keller?"

"No," Ronon grunted, batting aside Rodney's hands to get at his parka's zipper, "you're hotter."

Rodney gaped mutely, words momentarily trapped in the space between flattered and apoplectic.

"Bigger body, bigger heat," Ronon explained, "you gotta weigh twice what she does."

"Twice?" Rodney squawked. "She's petite, not a midget, and it's not like you're a lightweight, even if it is solid muscle—ow _ow_ , watch the ankle!"

"Sorry," Ronon rumbled, honest response to Rodney's honest hiss of pain, but it didn't stop him from yanking down his parka zipper.

"Yes, yes, all right," Rodney said, and grudgingly squirmed out of one sleeve of the parka so that Ronon could tug it halfway around his broad shoulders. He'd already opened his own coat and tucked it behind McKay's, reinforcing the double layer of silver emergency blankets insulating them from the snow they were sitting on and leaning against. Their other two blankets were draped over their legs; now Rodney yanked them up and somehow secured them at their collars, so that only their hooded heads stuck out.

The general effect was of a giant, lumpy, foil-wrapped baked potato, ready for the oven, squirming a bit as they shuffled their limbs into place. John rocked back on his heels, momentarily forgetting his frozen toes. "Um. Hmm."

Rodney's and Ronon's heads rolled around toward him. "Oh, _now_ he turns up," Rodney said, aggrieved, "just when we're settled." He sighed, and one corner of the blankets flipped up. "Come on, get over here. Your extra blankets will help, anyway."

"I'm okay," John said hastily. "That's...okay."

"No firewood?" Ronon asked, peering up from where he had his chin all but nestled against Rodney's hood.

"No firewood," John said.

Ronon grunted something that might have been sympathetic or might have just been acknowledgment, but wasn't particularly put out, either way. He didn't sound especially cold, not so that a fire would make a big difference to him.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Rodney said impatiently, the foil flapping with what John assumed was a concealed hurry-it-up gesture.

"Not that cold," John said, hunching his shoulders in his parka. "I'm fine."

Rodney rolled his eyes. "Body heat, Sheppard. We're not inviting you to an orgy."

"Although it would keep us warm," Ronon said thoughtfully, and then after a sharp rustle of blankets signaled an elbow to his ribs, "Ow. Well, it _would_ ," and he audibly smacked McKay back.

"Ow! You don't have to _bruise_ ," Rodney said, glaring at his bedmate, or blanketmate, anyway.

"You don't have to get bruised. That shouldn't leave a mark, if your body was properly hardened."

"I can't help that I have fair skin, it bruises easily! And an icepack wouldn't exactly be conducive to warmth now, would it, hmm? What are you doing, Sheppard?"

"Sitting," John said, freezing for a moment like a boy caught before a broken window with a baseball mitt on, and then upon realizing he had no reason to be ashamed, went on spreading the emergency blanket out over the ice. "Unless you've got a monopoly on that?"

"I meant, what are you doing over there?"

"That's all right—"

"No, it's not. Three is warmer than two, and I'm not going to be any colder than I have to be," Rodney said. "Besides," and he peered through the flashlight beam, eyes washed out of color and narrowed, "you ought to be warmer, too."

"I told you—" John clamped his teeth tight to keep them from chattering, "—I'm fine. It's not that cold."

"Oh God, don't tell me you're already so hypothermic you don't feel the cold. Ronon, go drag him over here before he starts taking off his clothes—"

"M'good here," Ronon protested, in a lazy tone that might have been called a whine if there were anyone crazy enough to accuse Ronon of such.

"Rodney," John said, folding his arms around himself and trying to stop shivering, "I'm not hypothermic, I am definitely not going to give you a strip show even if you ask real nice, and I'm fine where I am."

"Well, at least you're still shivering," Rodney huffed, continuing to glower at him. "But I'm pretty sure your lips aren't supposed to be that color. Unless you've got a new lip-gloss and haven't mentioned it to me. Ronon, are Colonel Sheppard's lips usually the color of blueberries?"

"Don't know what a blueberry is," Ronon said, but he squinted over at John. "Looks like the color of a kilkresch's skin, to me."

"Or blue jeans," Rodney said. "Did the latest issue of _Cosmo_ advise you to coordinate with your casual wardrobe, Sheppard? Because I really don't think you're a winter."

"Autumn," Ronon decided, after a moment's contemplation. "Charcoal brown hair, amber hazel eyes."

John stared. "I'm not even going to ask."

"Since fashion tips will matter _so_ much after your core body temperature's equalized with our environment." Rodney blew out an irritated breath in a foggy plume. "I know we're not nubile Ascended women, but we're not asking you for a cuddle. This is about survival, Sheppard, not your intimacy issues. Now get your scrawny butt over here."

"My—" John wondered what the protocol was for a commanding officer filing a harassment suit against his entire team. Minus Teyla, of course. If only Teyla were here.

Admittedly if Teyla were here, he would absolutely have to insist on keeping her and her pregnant body as warm as possible. And Teyla had regrettably few hang-ups about platonic physical contact, as she had proved to him on more than one awkward occasion. So he would be screwed either way.

" _Sheppard_ ," Rodney said. He was tapping his foot under the blankets; John could see the movement.

"Get over here so he'll shut up," Ronon grumbled. "Trying to sleep."

Except that Ronon had no qualms about shutting Rodney up by a variety of other, more threatening means, so John was highly suspicious of his motivation now.

"Hey, I'd love to nap, too," Rodney said, "but do you really want to wake up and find he's gone stage three hypothermic on us? Then it would be painful warming him up, rather than mildly uncomfortable, do you have any idea how low skin temperature can drop, and we'd end up frostbitten ourselves, thermal conduction is a bitch—"

If he got any louder, he was going to bring the roof of snow down on their heads. And possibly a dire wolf or two. John could have pointed that out, but some causes were lost before the battle started, and four years with Rodney McKay had given him a better grasp of workable tactics.

It was leadership strategy, more than the cold or his shivering; certainly nothing to do with how frigging _comfy_ Rodney and Ronon both looked, piled like absurdly overgrown, misshapen puppies, all warm and cozy and sharing heat under the blankets.

And nothing to do, either, with Ronon's smirk, or how Rodney's diatribe broke off in a rare, open smile, when John said, "Fine. Fine, shove over," and clomped over to them, dragging his blankets with him.

 

* * *

The crackle of his earpiece roused John partway, but with one arm wedged under Rodney's warm mass and the other trapped against Ronon's solid side, he had no way to answer it. By the time he'd dredged his consciousness up from the toasty snug closeness he was cocooned in to blink sleepily, Rodney was already whispering into his radio, "...a klick west of the gate. Yes, yes, no problems here, once we managed to get him between us he warmed up fast enough. See you in a couple hours. Bye, Teyla."

"Mmgrh?" John asked into the dark. The flashlight had died or been switched off, and there was a cold draft over his cheek.

Rodney patted him on the chest under the blankets. "Yeah, she's good," he said, "you can go back to sleep." He dropped his head back down on John's shoulder. "After all, you've got the warm spot, not the bony sharp-elbowed one, some pillow you make," though his resentment was belied when he was snoring softly in seconds.

John could have shrugged him off, but that would have also disturbed Ronon, whose head was tilted against John's. The draft was gone, replaced by the tickling of Rodney's hair where his hood had slipped down, and John melted back into sleep before he could protest.

He awoke to a flash of light before his eyelids and the unmistakable whir-click of a simulated shutter.

John looked up to see Teyla ten feet above them, peering through the broken snow with the sky pale rose behind her. Her wide smile was haloed by the silver aura of her fur-trimmed hood, behind the gray square of the camera in her hands.

Ronon was awake already; John could see the crescent flash of his teeth in the corner of his vision, one-two-three- _cheese_. Ronon liked getting his picture taken. At his other side, Rodney mumbled in his sleep and snuffled his cold pink nose into John's shoulder, blissfully unaware of the retribution John was plotting to pay him back for introducing Teyla to digital media.

Teyla tucked the camera away in her coat as she turned from the crevasse's edge to call for Lorne, then turned back as Rodney started awake at her voice and John shoving him off into the snow. "They're'ere?" he mumbled. "Rescue?"

"We are here, Rodney," Teyla said. "And I am glad you all are well. It was a long night."

In the wavering dawn light, Teyla's face looked drawn and gray, frozen around her smile. She shouldn't be up out there, John thought. In the crevasse they were sheltered, but even if it had stopped flurrying the winds were fierce across the glacier. But there would be a time and place for that later. Now he just asked, "Hey, are you okay?"

The ice around Teyla's smile broke, thawed into mischievous life. "I am fine, John," she said, and patted the pocket with the camera. "After all, now I have this to keep me warm."

**Author's Note:**

> [Adorable accompanying art by Gnine!](http://sga-flashfic.livejournal.com/696296.html)


End file.
